THE internal economy of a Scotch parish is not so clearly comprehensible now-a-days as it was in former times. Civilization itself has made countless inroads upon the original unities everywhere, and the changes that have come to pass within the recollection of the living generation are almost as great though very different from those which made Scotland during last century so picturesque in its state of transition. When Sunday morning dawned upon the Holy Loch, it did not shine upon that pretty rural picture of unanimous church-going so well-known to the history of the past. The groups from the cottages took different ways—the carriage from the Castle swept round the hill to the other side of the parish, where there was an “English Chapel.” The reign of opinion and liking was established in the once primitive community. Half of the people ascended the hillside to the Free Church, while the others wound down the side of the loch to the Kirk, which had once accommodated the whole parish. This state of affairs had become so usual that even polemical feeling had ceased to a great extent, and the two streams of church-going people crossed each other placidly without recriminations. This day, for a wonder, the sun was shining brightly, notwithstanding a cloudy stormy sky, which now and then heaved forward a rolling mass of vapour, and dispersed it sharply over the hills in a flying mist and shower.
The parish church lay at the lower end of the loch, a pretty little church built since the days when architecture had penetrated even into Scotland. Colin of Ramore and his family were there in their pew, the boys arranged in order of seniority between Mrs. Campbell, who sat at the head, and the farmer himself who kept the seat at the door. Black-eyed Johnnie, with his hair bleached white by constant exposure, and his round eyes wandering over the walls and the pews and the pulpit and the people, sat by his mother’s side, and the younger Colin occupied his post of seniority by his father. They were all seated, in this disposition, when the present occupant of the Castle, Sir Thomas Frankland, lounged up the little aisle, with his son after him. Sir Thomas was quite devout and respectable, a man who knew how to conduct himself even in such a novel scene—and after all a Presbyterian church was no novelty to the sportsman—but to Harry the aspect of everything was new, and his curiosity was excited. It was a critical moment in the history of the parish. The former minister had been transferred only a few weeks before to a more important station, and the Earl, the patron, had, according to Scotch phraseology, “presented” a new incumbent to the living. This unhappy man was ascending the pulpit when the Franklands, father and son, entered the church. For the Earl’s presentation by no means implied the peaceable entrance of the new minister; he had to preach, to give the people an opportunity of deciding whether they liked him or not; and if they did not like him, they had the power of “objecting,” that is, of urging special reasons for their dislike before the Presbytery, with a certainty of making a little noise in the district, and a reasonable probability of disgusting and mortifying the unlucky presentee, to the point of throwing up his appointment. All this was well known to the unfortunate man, who rose up in the pulpit as Sir Thomas found a seat, and proceeded to read the psalm with a somewhat embarrassed and faltering voice. He was moderately young and well-looking, with a face, at the present moment, more agitated than was quite harmonious with the position in which he stood: for he was quite aware that everybody was criticizing him, and that the inflections of his voice and the fiery tint of his hair were being noted by eager commentators bent upon finding ground for an “objection” in everything he said. Such a consciousness naturally does not promote ease or comfort. His hair looked redder than ever, as a stray ray of sunshine gleamed in upon him, and his voice took a nervous break as he looked over the many hard unsympathetic faces which were regarding him with the sharp curiosity and inspection of excited wits.
But while Harry Frankland made, as he thought, “an ass of himself” on every occasion that offered—standing bolt upright when the congregation began to sing, which they did at their leisure, seated in the usual way—and kicking his heels in an attempt to kneel when everybody round him rose up for the prayer, and feeling terribly red and ashamed at each mistake, Colin the younger, of Ramore, occupied himself, like a heartless young critic as he was, in making observations on the minister. Colin, like his father, had a high opinion of “popular rights.” It was his idea, somehow drawn in with the damp Highland air he breathed, that the right of objecting to a presentee was one of the most important privileges of a Scotch Churchman. Then, he was to be a minister himself, and the consciousness of this fact intensified the natural opposition which prompted the boy’s mind to resist anything and everything that threatened to be imposed on him. Colin even listened to the prayer, which was a thing not usual with him, that he might find out the objectionable phrases. And to be sure there were plenty of objectionable phrases to mar the real devotion; the vainest of vain repetitions, well-known and familiar as household words to every Scotch ear, demonstrated how little effect the absence of a liturgy has in promoting fervent and individual supplications. The congregation in general listened, like young Colin, standing up in easy attitudes, and observing everything that passed around them with open-eyed composure. It did not look much like common supplication, nor did it pretend to be—for the people were but listening to the minister’s prayer, which, to tell the truth, contained various expository and remonstrative paragraphs, which were clearly addressed to the congregation; and they were all very glad to sit down when it was over, and clear their throats, and prepare for the sermon, which was the real business of the day.
“I dinna like a’ that new-fangled nonsense to begin with,” said Eben Campbell, of Barnton, as he walked home after church, with the party from Ramore; “naebody wants twa chapters read at one diet of worship. The Bible’s grand at hame, but that’s no what a man gangs to the kirk for; that, and so mony prayers—it’s naething but a great offput of time.”
“But we never can have ower muckle o’ the word of God,” said Colin of Ramore’s wife.
“I’m of Eben’s opinion,” said another neighbour. “We have the word o’ God at hame, and I hope we make a good use o’ it; but that’s no what we gang to the kirk to hear. When ye see a man that’s set up in the pulpit for anither purpose a’thegether, spending half his time in reading chapters and ither preliminaries, I aye consider it’s a sure sign that he hasna muckle o’ his ain to say.”
They were all walking abreast in a leisurely Sunday fashion up the loch; the children roaming about the skirts of the older party, some in front and some behind, occasionally making furtive investigations into the condition of the brambles, an anti-Sabbatical occupation which was sharply interrupted when found out—the women picking their steps along the edges of the muddy road, with now and then a word of pleasant gossip, while the men trudged on sturdily through the puddles, discussing the great subject of the day.
“Some of the new folk from the Castle were in the kirk to-day,” said one of the party,—“which is a respect to the parish the Earl doesna pay himself. Things are terrible changed in that way since my young days. The auld Earl, this ane’s father, was an elder in the Kirk; and gentle and simple, we a’ said our prayers thegether—”
“I dinna approve of that expression,” said Eben of Barnton. “To speak of saying your prayers in the kirk is pure papistry. Say your prayers at hame, as I hope we a’ do, at the family altar, no to speak of private devotions,” said this defender of the faith, with a glance at the unlucky individual who had just spoken, and who was understood not to be so regular in the article of family prayer as he ought to have been. “We gang to the kirk to have our minds stirred up and put in remembrance. I dinna approve of the English fashion of putting everything into the prayers.”
“Weel, weel, I meant nae harm,” said the previous speaker. “We a’ gaed to the Kirk, was what I meant to say; and there’s the Queen, she aye sets a grand example. You’ll no find her driving off three or four miles to an English Chapel. I consider it’s a great respect to the parish to see Sir Thomas in the Castle pew.”
“I would rather see him respect the Sabbath day,” said Eben Campbell, pointing out a little pleasure-boat, a tiny little cockleshell, with a morsel of snow-white sail, which just then appeared in the middle of the loch, rushing up beautifully before the wind, through the placid waters, and lighting up the landscape with a touch of life and motion. Young Colin was at Eben’s elbow, and followed the movement of his hand with keen eyes. A spark of jealousy had kindled in the boy’s breast—he could not have told why. He was not so horrified as he ought to have been at the sight of the boat disturbing the Sunday quiet; but, with a swell of indignation and resentment in his boyish heart, he thought of the difference between himself and the young visitor at the Castle. It looked symbolical to Colin. He, trudging heavily over the muddy, lengthy road; the other, flying along in that dainty, little, bird-like boat, with those white wings of sail, which pleased Colin’s eye in spite of himself, carrying him on as lightly and swiftly as heart could desire. Why should one boy have such a wonderful advantage over another? It was the first grand problem which had puzzled and embittered Colin’s thoughts.
“There they go!” said the boy. “It’s fine and easy, running like that before the wind. They’ll get to the end o’ the loch before we’ve got over a mile. That makes an awfu’ difference,” said Colin, with subdued wrath; he was thinking of other things besides the long walk from church and the muddy road.
“We’ll may be get home as soon, for all that,” said his father, who guessed the boy’s thoughts; for the elder Colin’s experienced eye had already seen that mists were rising among the hills, and that the fair breeze would soon be fair no longer. The scene changed as if by enchantment while the farmer spoke. Such changes come and go like breath over the Holy Loch. The sunshine which had been making the whole landscape into a visible paradise, vanished suddenly off the hills and waters like a frightened thing, and a visible darkness came brooding over the mountains, dropping lower every moment like a pall of gloom over the lower banks and the suddenly paled and shivering loch. The joyous little boat, which had been careering on as if by a natural impulse of delight, suddenly changed its character along with all the other details of the picture. The spectators saw its white sail, fluttering like an alarmed seabird, against the black background of cloud. Then it began to tack and waver and make awkward tremulous darts across the darkened water. The party of pedestrians stood still to watch it, as the position became dangerous. They knew the loch and the winds too well to look on with composure. As for young Colin of Ramore, his heart began to leap and swell in his boyish bosom. Was that his adversary, the favoured rival whom he had recognised by instinct, who was fighting for his life out there in midwater, with the storm gaining on him, and his little vessel staggering in the wind? Colin did not hear the remarks of the other spectators. He felt in his heart that he was looking on at a struggle which was for life or death, and his contempt for the skill of the amateur sailor, whose unused hands were so manifestly unable to manage the boat, was mingled with a kind of despair lest a stronger power should snatch this opponent of his own out of the future strife, in which Colin had vowed to himself to be victorious.
“You fool! take in the sail,” he shouted, putting both his hands to his mouth, forgetting how impossible it was that the sound could reach; and then scarcely knowing what he was about, the boy rushed down to the beach, and jumped into the nearest boat. The sound of his oars furiously plashing through the silence was the first indication to his companions of what he had done. And he did not even see nor hear the calls and gestures with which he was summoned back again. His oars, and how to get there at a flight like a bird, occupied his mind entirely. Yet even in his anxiety he scorned to ask for help which would have carried him so much sooner to the spot he aimed at. As this sudden sound echoed through the profound silence, various outcries came from the group on the bank.
“It’s tempting Providence,” cried Eben Campbell. “Yon’s a judgment on the Sabbath-breaker,—and what can the laddie do? Come back, sir, this moment, come back! Ye’ll never win there in time.”
As for the boy’s mother, after his first start she clasped her hands together, and watched the boat with an interest too intense for words. “He’s in nae danger,” she said to herself softly; and it would have been hard to tell whether she was sorry or glad that her boy’s enterprise was attended by no personal peril.
“Let him be,” said the farmer of Ramore, pushing aside his anxious neighbour, who was calling Colin ineffectually but without intermission. Colin Campbell’s face had taken a sudden crimson flush which nobody could account for. He went off up the beach with heavy rapid steps, scattering the shingle round his feet, to a spot exactly opposite the struggling boat, and stood there watching with wonderful eagerness. The little white sail was still fluttering and struggling like a distressed bird upon the black overclouded water. Now it lurched over till the very mast seemed to touch the loch—now recovered itself for a tremulous moment—and finally, shivering like a living creature, gave one wild sudden stagger, and disappeared. When the speck of white vanished out of the black landscape, a cry came out of all their hearts; and hopeless as it was, the very man who had been calling Colin back, rushed in his turn to a boat, and pushed off violently into the loch. The women stood huddled together, helpless with terror and grief. “The bit laddie! the bit laddie!” cried one of them—“some poor woman’s bairn.” As for Mrs. Campbell, the world grew dark round her as she strained her eyes after Colin’s boat. She did not faint, for such was not the habit of the Holy Loch; but she sank down suddenly on the wet green bank, and put up her hand over her eyes as if to shade them from some imaginary sunshine, and gazed, not seeing anything, after her boy. To see her, delicate as she was, with the woman weakness which they all understood, seating herself in this wild way on the wet bank, distracted the attention of her kindly female neighbours, even from the terrible event which had just taken place before their eyes.
“Maybe the lad can swim,” said Eben Campbell’s wife—“onyway yonder’s your Colin running races with death to save him. But you maunna sit here—come into Dugald Macfarlane’s house. There’s my man away in another boat and some mair. But we canna let you sit here.”
“Eh, my Colin, I canna see my Colin,” said the mistress of Ramore; but they led her away into the nearest cottage, notwithstanding her reluctance. There they all stood clustering at the window, aiding the eyes which had failed her in her weakness. Colin’s mother sat silent in the chair where they had placed her, trembling and rocking herself to and fro. Her heart within her was praying and crying for the boys—the two boys whom in this moment of confused anxiety she could not separate—her own first-born, and the stranger who was “another woman’s bairn.” God help all women and mothers!—though Colin was safe, what could her heart do but break at the thought of the sudden calamity which had shut out the sunshine from another. She rocked herself to and fro, ceasing at last to hear what they said to her, and scarcely aware of anything except the dull clank of the oars against the boat’s side; somebody coming or going, she knew not which—always coming or going—never bringing certain news which was lost and which saved.
The mistress of Ramore was still in this stupor of anxiety, when young Harry Frankland, dripping and all but insensible, was carried into Dugald Macfarlane’s cottage. The little room became dark instantly with such a cloud of men that it was difficult to make out how he had been saved, or if there was indeed any life left in the lad. But Dugald Macfarlane’s wife, who had the ferry-boat at Struan, and understood about drowning, had bestirred herself in the meantime, and had hot blankets and other necessaries in the inner room where big Colin Campbell carried the boy. Then all the men about burst at once into the narrative. “If it hadna been for little Colin o’ Ramore”—was about all Mrs. Campbell made out of the tale. The cottage was so thronged that there was scarcely an entrance left for the doctor and Sir Thomas who had both been summoned by anxious messengers. By this time the storm had come down upon the loch, and a wild sudden tempest of rain was sweeping black across hill and water, obliterating every line of the landscape. Half-way across, playing on the surface of the water was a bit of spar with a scarlet rag attached to it, which made a great show glistening over the black waves. This was all that was visible of the pleasure-boat in which the young stranger had been bounding along so pleasantly an hour before. The neighbours dropped off gradually, dispersing to other adjacent houses to talk over the incident, or pushing homeward with an indifference to the storm that was natural to the dwellers on the Holy Loch; and it was only when she was left alone, waiting for her husband, who was in the inner room with Sir Thomas and the saved boy, that Mrs. Campbell perceived Colin’s bashful face gleaming in furtively at the open door.
“It’s no so wet as it was; come away, mother, now,” said Colin, “there’s nae fears o’ him?” And the lad pointed half with an assertion, half with an inquiry, towards the inner room. It was an unlucky moment for the shy hero, for just then big Colin of Ramore appeared with Sir Thomas at the door.
“This is the boy that saved my son,” said Harry’s father. “You are a brave fellow; neither he nor I will ever forget it. Let me know if there is anything I can serve you in, and to the best of my power I will help you as you have helped me. What does he say?”
“I say,” said Colin the younger, with fierce blushes, “that it wasna me. I’ve done naething to be thanked for. Yon fellow swims like a fish, and he saved himsel.”
And then there came an answering voice from the inner room—a boy’s voice subdued out of its natural falsetto into feminine tones of weakness, “He’s telling a lie, that fellow there,” cried the other from his bed; “he picked me up when I was about done for. I’ll fight him if he likes as soon as I’m able. But that’s a lie he tells you; that’s him—that Campbell fellow there.”
Upon which young Colin of Ramore clenched his fists in his wet pockets and faced towards the door, which Dugald Macfarlane’s wife closed softly, looking out upon him, shaking her head and holding up a finger to impose silence; the two fathers meanwhile looked in each other’s faces. The English baronet and the Scotch farmer both broke into a low, unsteady laugh, and then with an impulse of fellowship, mutually extended their hands.
“We have nae reason to think shame of our sons,” said Colin Campbell with his Scotch dignity; “as for service or reward that is neither here nor there; what my boy did your boy would do if he had the chance, and there’s nae mair to be said that I can see.”
“There’s a great deal more to be said,” said Sir Thomas; “Lady Frankland will call on Mrs. Campbell, and thank that brave boy of yours; and if you think I can forget such a service,—I tell you there’s a great deal more to be said,” said the sportsman, breaking down suddenly with a little effusion, of which he was half ashamed.
“The gentleman’s right, Colin,” said the mistress of Ramore. “God be thanked for the two laddies! My heart was breaking for the English lady. God be thanked! That’s a’ there is to say. But I’ll be real glad to see that open-hearted callant when he’s well, and his mother too,” said the farmer’s wife, turning her soft eyes upon Sir Thomas, with a gracious response to the overflowing of his heart. Sir Thomas took off his hat to her as respectfully as he would have done to the Queen, when she took her husband’s strong arm, and followed Colin, who by this time, with his hands in his pockets and his heart beating loudly, was half way to Ramore; and now they had other topics besides that unfailing one of the new minister to talk of on the way.